On Each Other's Team
by k.zzp3
Summary: Two couples fight to find their place in a world where every spouse is divided into one of two categories: Careers and Domestics. It isn't fair, but it is life. Dystopia AU. Faberry/Brittana.
1. Chapter 1: Teaser

Like most things, it began with the end of the war.

The government found that after the rebellion, society needed to be repaired.

Too many liberties, after all, had proved to create a society of unrest. Even worse, the years before the rebellion had uncovered a disastrous trend: people, given free reign over their lives, tended to delay families, marriage, and children to alarming rates. Officials were certain the weakened state of the family was the cause of the rebellion, and such destruction needed to be stopped at all costs.

Even more concerning to the officials was the unequal distribution of the workforce. It seemed that too many citizens wanted to obtain cushy official jobs, leaving the newly reformed society without the base labor source it desperately needed to rebuild. After months of debate, it was decided. Citizens would be happiest, the government proclaimed, if the Officials took a greater role in people's everyday lives.

Skeptics would point out that the Officials seemed more concerned with the threat to their own livelihoods, but that was the type of talk that only existed in hushed whispers of empty halls.

Instead, most people kept their heads down and accepted the rule of the government through its Officials without a second glance. Each child was educated by Officials until their eighteenth birthday. On that day, each new citizen had two options. They could be married by "selection", or be sorted through the Officials' mate coordination system. Marriage by selection was the equivalent of being in love, and though disfavored by the Officials, was a way of appeasing those most critical of the new government.

Additionally, to cut down on government expenses, each spouse would be given different assignments. One spouse would stay home as the domestic partner (known as the "Domestic") while the other (the "Career") would be required to work, vote, and participate in any Official business. This allowed the Officials to allocate resources and save unnecessary waste by designating one "point of contact" for Government business. This was a modern society, a _new beginning_, so there was no need to discriminate between heterosexual and homosexual couples.

It was all bullshit.

Effectively, the new government created two separate classes. One with the ability to do whatever they wanted within the confines of the law, and the other to be almost completely crippled. But people found a way to make it work. After all, there was not much of a choice.

However, the government quickly caught on to the schemes of many to opt out of the Official program. For the first few years after the new regime, parents would encourage their children to marry by selection, if only to circumvent Official involvement and to choose their own destiny. But to the Officials, these radicals bordered on fighting for the very thing that destroyed the previous establishments: liberty. And that was not acceptable. Thus, a "compromise" was made. Individuals could select whether to opt out of the Official mate selection system, but they would then be unable to choose their future career or status as a domestic or official partner. Officials believed the selection penalty would be strong enough to make every citizen think twice about avoiding the mate selection system.

But even then, this was not enough to spur the rapid growth of the labor force the Officials needed. The new regime had to rebuild and while the top priority had been the physical infrastructure to support the government, the labor force had been crippled by the previous wars. Especially since those in actual positions of authority did not want to have to debase themselves with _menial _ labor.

So it was decided.

Every three years, every woman in a heterosexual couple and the domestic in each lesbian couple were to begin fertility treatments designed to encourage re-population as quickly as possible. At the end of the six week treatment, lesbian couples were administered IVF through sperm "donations" forced on gay couples. And, in the supernal act of mercy, each Mayor that oversaw the local officials and enforcement were granted the power to give three deferrals—or exceptions—every year.

It was not a fair system, but it was life.


	2. Chapter 2: Beginnings (SRBQ)

You sigh as you wipe down your kitchen countertop for what feels like the millionth time today. Your fingers catch on the drying globs of pancake batter and you can't help but smirk at the thought that Brittany would love to be home for peanut butter and chocolate chip pancakes. You feel bad at the slight rush of relief you feel that she wasn't there this morning because the mess would have been enormous. You shake your head slightly with a small smile at the thought.

Your wife can be such a kid sometimes.

Some things, you would never change. Marrying Brittany Pierce by selection the _second_ you turned 18 was one of them.

Other things, though…you can't help but wonder how life could have turned out.

Sure, you pissed off your teachers all through school, but you never expected the Government to assign you as the Domestic. Honestly, you and Britt were both so _sure_ that she would be the one to stay home and have your lady babies while you did everything possible to protect her.

That was how the two of you worked.

All of it changed, though, when you received your registration card for "Santana Pierce, Domestic Partner of Brittany S. Pierce." The second the Official put your card in her hand, every right you had previously enjoyed (or at least anticipated) was gone. You can't vote. You can't work. You can't drive. You aren't allowed to file complaints or any official documents. You can't even leave the house alone after ten at night for fear of violating the curfew for Domestics.

At first, it hadn't been so bad. After all, you love Brittany so it was worth it.

It _is_ worth it.

…Most of the time.

Now, Brittany has to protect _you_. She won't leave you alone at those fancy dinners she has to go to, because even three pregnancies later, you are hot. She worries that you can't defend yourself if some sleazy coworker of hers tries to pull something. You hate that she is right. You learned quickly to keep your mouth shut when Officials started giving you crap because there was nothing you could do about it but Brittany always tried to find some way of holding them accountable.

It didn't work.

Now, you are smart enough to stay out of trouble. You would do anything for her.

Sometimes, though, you wonder if the Officials' system will end up killing you. Ten years ago, you might have rolled your eyes at the thought and called yourself a pussy.

Now, you are just being realistic.

Your first pregnancy didn't go well. Zoey was eight weeks early and you tore from V-town to Timbuktu. You spent a week in the hospital and another two under close observation. A nurse let it slip that you probably should have died.

_That_ sort of put things in a new perspective.

Three years later, you got the notice to start fertility treatments again. You tried to calm Brittany's fears, reminding her that maybe this one would be easier.

It wasn't.

The pregnancy itself was…hard. Eight weeks after being basted like a turkey at Thanksgiving, you apparently woke up bleeding and in phenomenal pain. It is always weird to think about how much of that you _don't _remember. But the fear in Brittany's eyes when you woke up and she told you what happened was enough for the story to stick. An ectopic pregnancy had almost killed you. The week in the ICU made you wish it had.

The door slams shut and you startle, realizing that you have been lost in your thoughts for a while. "Mommy!"

You smile just before a blurred lump slams against your knees.

Zoey may look exactly like you, but she's got Brittany's enthusiasm for life. You love it.

"Hey Baby Girl." You bend down to wrap her up in a quick, tight hug. "How was school today?"

She starts rattling off excitedly all about her day. There's something about the class hamster that she keeps hinting at, but you still aren't really clear and she has been talking about Benny the hamster for weeks.

"Where's Charlie?" She asks as soon as she finally stops to take a breath.

You smile. She loves her little brother. It doesn't matter that he is _always_ taking a nap at this time of day, she will always ask. You've tried changing up Charlie's schedule so that he's awake when Zoey gets home, but the little tank just gets so tired.

"Naptime." You remind her.

"Oh." She nods happily and slides her little pink backpack off her shoulders. "Can I have a cookie?" She asks innocently, her bright brown eyes wide in a pleading expression that perfectly mirrors Brittany's.

"Sure kiddo." You gently nudge her toward the table. "Start on your homework so you can play when Mom comes home."

You love your kids, but the reality of Charlie's looming third birthday means that the big clock that has been counting down is nearing zero.

Getting pregnant again could absolutely kill you.

Is this how life was supposed to be? Cleaning up cookie crumbs and pastry batter while Brittany worked her ass off in order to provide for them? You feel like you had been made for more than this, more than a death sentence looming over your head in the form of a cute little baby.

You just don't know what.

* * *

"Miss Berry, it has been a pleasure having you in our theater company." Your old boss, David Martinez, remarks, watching as you pack the last of the items in your dressing room into the boxes headed back to Lima, Ohio.

You smile politely, after all, what else are you supposed to do? "The pleasure has been all mine." You insist.

You've spent the last five years in New York and it has been _wonderful_. Late night parties are okay, but there is a thrill that comes with being a performer and living your dream. You have always wanted this.

And now it is over.

You never thought this far into the future. Your whole life has been moving toward "live in New York" and "Star on Broadway". As a child you knew that acquiring a deferral for being a performer was almost unheard of in Lima, Ohio, but somehow you made it.

At first, you thought it was some joke played by Quinn Fabray and all her career-bound lackeys. After all, as the mayor's daughter she was guaranteed to be matched with the mate of her choice and to get a cushy career delegation. But then, it finally hit you.

You had done it. You made it.

Broadway was everything you thought it would be. You started off as an understudy, learning as much as you could about the politics within the acting world. Eventually, you got a couple of chorus line parts. Those graduated into speaking parts and finally, three years ago, you got your bit part.

In high school, you would have scoffed and insisted that Rachel Berry was a star. However, you learned a lot working your way up through the ranks. Starring roles for newcomers were rare, but not as rare as people thought. There were mean sadistic directors out there that _only_ casted newcomers in starring roles. You hadn't understood at first, why new stars would head back home with only a few months under their belt in New York, but then your dancing partner had explained it.

Normally, deferrals for performers were for five years. However, to support the Officials, many native New Yorkers were assigned to work in director and other stage production roles. In order to support all of the performers who were trying to break into the acting world, New York Officials created a loophole to the five year limit. If an actor was given a starring role before residing in New York for six months was obviously _too_ talented to be performing on stage and should "take their talents back to their hometown".

In other words, newbies were sent packing.

There was some other incentive for casting newcomers that she could never remember, so it was pretty standard for shows to cast their entire show with unknowns. Generally that show would open for a few weeks to get the initial buzz with the (oftentimes choppy) original cast. Then, directors would cast actors that they _knew_ had the chops to carry the performances. _Those_ were the roles you realized you wanted. It wasn't enough to see your name in the bright shiny lights because you wanted to be remembered.

You wanted to be iconic.

So you kept working. Bit parts turned into major parts which turned into lead parts. Soon, your name _was_ surrounded by the bright lights of Broadway and you knew that this was it for you. This was all you had ever wanted.

And now it was over.

When you signed up for this, you knew the rules. Performing deferrals were limited to five years. After that, you get shipped back home to be immediately assigned a mate and a role as either Domestic or corporate spouse. Because you have used so many deferrals, you don't get to have a choice in either of them. Back then, it had just seemed like no big deal, a small hurdle in the way of achieving her ultimate goal.

Now though, it was time to pay the piper.

You finger the inside of your wrist absently and wonder if you will soon be tattooed with the Domestics' symbol for "easy identification". You have heard people say that the Domestic tattoo hurts. You've never done well with physical pain.

"When do you leave?" David asks, snapping you out of your thoughts.

You try not to bristle at the question, the reminder that you are done and can never come back because David is a nice guy. _David_ was lucky enough to have been born in New York and sorted into a career he loved. Though people always suggested that his distant relative had made some underhanded deals to keep him from being a Domestic, you've never really cared. David is good at what he does and, in your opinion, nothing else should matter.

Still, though, you are a little jealous.

At least the jealousy tones down your nervousness.

"Later tonight." You admit sadly, closing up the last box and raking your eyes over the now bare room.

This is it.

Now it is time to pay the price for getting your dreams.

You hope that it will be worth it.

* * *

"Good work today, Pierce." Lauren nudges you with a small smirk as she files beside you into the train car.

You smile back at her softly. She wouldn't really know if you had a good day or not, but ahead of security, she guesses that every day is a good one. You nudge her back playfully as you both find a place to stand in the crowded train car. "You too."

She laughs at that. "I didn't really do anything today."

"Well, I didn't get shot at, so that means you did your job, right?" You retort, using your classic deflection techniques. She laughs and you both settle in for the long ride home.

You are grateful she doesn't try to talk to you right now.

You really just want to get home.

Lauren's been a good friend to you. The pair of you look out for one another at work. She watches your back, making sure that some of the assholes in your department stay as far away from you as possible. You do your best to make sure she gets cushy assignments so she can make it home on time each night. Working in security can be dangerous and you've always worried that she might get reassigned to somewhere more exciting than the stark white offices you spend most of your days in. She might not have been your first choice in a friend, but she is a good one.

More importantly, the two of you watch out for Puck and Santana together. Trouble seems to follow Santana (and Puck) wherever they go. You know it is not their fault. You couldn't blame them even if you wanted to. You've seen enough to know that other Careers single Santana out.

She's gotten in enough trouble that some people have told you that you need to "teach your Domestic her place."

You hate calling Santana that. A _Domestic_, like that is some dirty word and is all that defines her. You know that if she were the Career, she would always defend you. You try to follow her example.

It doesn't always work.

You clench your jaw tightly at the thought and readjust your hand against the cool plastic hanging from the ceiling of the train. It's been a _long_ day. (Really, it's been a long week but you don't want to dwell on that). You watch out the window as the bustling city lights flash by in quick succession, and plead for it to speed up so that you can get home sooner. Looking around the train car, you roll your eyes at the fact that you even bothered.

Everyone on this car (and probably all the other train cars) is dressed similarly in the red and grey jackets that are typical of the Career wardrobe. Any other time of day there may have been one or two Domestics interspersed in the cars so it would have broken up the red and grey sea with flashes of the Domestics' blue and white apparel.

Growing up in your small suburb, you always thought the train to the city was magical. The idea of dressing up and being important enough to need to go into the city was always fascinating. When you thought about your future with Santana, you always pictured the pair of you going everywhere together. Back then, you thought as a team you would be unstoppable, gleefully blitzing through each day and find more and more magic together.

But now, you aren't that naïve anymore.

You love Santana, so much so that sometimes it hurts.

Growing up, Santana had always been your protector. With a chip on her shoulder and a quick temper, Santana had been a force to be reckoned with.

Some people might call her "fiery", but you really, really hate it when people say that too. Santana is so much more than just one word. She's passionate and beautiful. Creative and cunning. She's smart and funny. She's quick witted and can be so kind when she wants to be. She is vulnerable and soft and sometimes doesn't believe in herself enough. She likes corny romance movies but will never admit to being such a softy.

She's your soul mate.

But living here, in this world, you hate what all of the pressures of adulthood has brought to her.

It's castrated her.

Not literally, because you _love_ her lady parts. But you know that she censors herself now. It's like she's always looking around to see who is watching, afraid to laugh or cry or just be, because she's worried of what might happen.

It kills you that she has to hide that part of herself.

You feel like if people could just see her, not as your Domestic, but as a _person_ that they would be just as captivated as you are.

Truth be told, you were disappointed to be the Career. You have never said that to anyone, Santana included. You were both surprised at your assignments, but you know it is hard for her to be so dependent on everything you do.

You work as an engineer at a semi-conductor plant. Your job is actually super important and really specific. Everyone had pretty much given up on you until you took the career placement test and they realized that your brain was this mathematical super calculator that was as good at Engineering as it was at figuring out Santana. Suddenly those people who had whispered mean things about you looked at you with respect. It is weird, and you aren't certain who to trust anymore.

If you can't be around Santana every day, you figure this job is an okay substitute. But it's not really what you wanted for yourself. It is definitely not how you pictured the future.

You had always pictured lazy mornings with the kids, making muffins and toast and waffles just for fun. You had always wanted to have dinner waiting and ready the second Santana stepped through the door at night after a long day of work. That's what you had always pictured and you _know_ that is what both you and Santana wanted.

But it's not like there was anything you could do about it.

So Santana learned how to cook. She tries really hard to make sure there is breakfast waiting for you before you leave and that you can have as much un-interrupted time with the kids before you have to go to work. At night, dinner's ready and you spend time together as a family, pretending for as long as you can that this is all that matters.

But you see the fear looming over Santana every once in a while when she looks at Charlie and you know what she is thinking.

Because you are thinking it too.

If you don't find a way out of this upcoming required pregnancy, she's doomed.

(You are too, really).

What are you supposed to do without her? You try not to think about it too much because it makes you want to throw up.

You _need_ to save her from the ridiculous requirement of getting pregnant. You have to figure something out, because you _can't_ watch her in pain again. With each pregnancy you are sure that you have shaved ten years off your life. Every wince, every twinge of her face makes your heart stop. You can't help but wonder each time, _'will this be the last wince she ever makes?'_

You have to figure this out.

Not just because she would do it for you (though she would), but because you love her.

* * *

You are a stuck up bitch.

You know it is true.

You should probably feel bad, but you don't. You just want things to go your way, and unlike most people you have the opportunity to get what you want.

That doesn't make you selfish, it makes you powerful.

You smile as you sit perfectly in your chair, back straight, eyes forward, poised beyond belief, while your father's advisors drone on about town safety and other garbage. Your father, seated beside you, is following their words with feigned interest.

"Thank you, gentlemen. That will be all." He stands and you mirror his actions, aware that any hesitation will be viewed as weakness.

You follow him out of the conference room, demurely making sure to keep a good five steps behind him at all times, just the way he likes it. He opens the door to the street for you and you nod politely before going through first. You wait for him to join you and the bustling sidewalk full of people parts to go around the both of you.

So far, everything has been perfect.

Just then a woman bumps into him on the busy street.

His temper is gone in an instant. "Watch where you're going, _domestic_." Your father spits toward the woman while he straightens his jacket. "I swear, sometimes I think these domestics need a daytime curfew as well." He mutters.

You watch, slightly envious, as the woman slinks away from you and your father. "Why not?" You prod.

Sure, that seems like a dick-head law, but it wouldn't be the first time your father made up laws just because he wanted to. Domestics had it easy. They got the cushy lifestyle, staying at home, watching TV, and playing with their brat kids until the Careers came home.

Your father laughs and claps you on the shoulder. "Because then your mother would need _me_ to go shopping with her and I would rather die."

You join in his laughter because the image _is _pretty hilarious. Your father (like you) was not meant for menial tasks like the shopping. He is important, he matters.

You just want to matter too.

Call them insane Daddy issues, but you just want him to be proud of you.

You'll never admit to finding kids cute. You will never admit how once upon a time you dreamed of starting a family with someone else. The pair of you would run away together and it wouldn't matter who was assigned as the Domestic because you would be in love.

Maybe that's why you go out of your way to torment your childhood friend Santana. You aren't the only one who likes to give Domestics a hard time. Their lives are just _so_ easy. Every time you see Santana, you can't help but be a little jealous.

(Not that you would _ever_ admit that out loud).

She has everything you had ever wanted. She has the easy life, waiting around for someone who loves her.

What do you have?

You have everything at your father's house. Cars, clothes, men, and everything you could ever ask for.

But you aren't stupid.

You know it is just a house of cards waiting to tumble at the first slight breeze. Your father loves parading you around like a prized possession because you _act_ the part. If he only knew.

He is not a bad man. He just hates gays (though he can't ever _say_ that because it is unpopular) and Domestics (that one he says all the time). He's a little pig headed and a lot stubborn. He likes his house like he likes his dinner: orderly, quiet, and on time.

You are the first to admit he probably isn't the best leader. But you know that he has to pull strings to put you in line for the Mayorship and you _know_ you can do a better job than he does. You are also well aware that if he found out you liked girls then everything you have worked for would disappear in an instant.

It's just a waiting game now.

One day, it will be your turn to lead and maybe you can do away with the vindictive laws your father likes to pass.

A girl can dream.


End file.
